When the Cat's Away

by Dane McCaslin

  Merry jerked her arm out of my reach, nearly knocking over my glass of tea, and I smiled apologetically at the elderly lady sitting nearby. She gave a loud sniff that clearly articulated her opinion. I was tempted to stick out my tongue.

  "Merry, you can't control everyone's actions, and I'm starting to think that Bea is not one who can be controlled anyway." I inconspicuously moved both glasses closer to the table's center, safe from flying elbows. "Besides, she does have a business to run."

  Merry gave a snort that was worthy of Greg's best effort. "The only people that go to that run-down excuse for a store are all those senior citizens."

  This time the lady next to us gave an audible "hmph," followed by a decidedly irate request to move table. The nervous server explained that tables were at a premium and she'd need to stay where she was. O'Reilly's would, however, give her a complimentary dessert for her trouble.

  I was tempted to ask for one as well. Lunch with Merry had evolved into something akin to grasshopper wrangling, and I was exhausted from trying to keep up with her emotional leaps. If only Officer Scott would show up and bring some much-needed equilibrium to the mix.

  "There he is!" Merry's hand shot across the table and grabbed my arm. "Is my hair okay?"

  "Who's here? And what's wrong with your hair?" I craned my neck, trying to see where the "he" was standing. Instead of the expected Officer Scott, I saw Detective Leonides, dressed to the nines per usual, and he was headed straight for our table.

  "What is he doing here?" I hissed at Merry, trying to smile at the same time. I felt like a ventriloquist, my lips moving adversely to my voice.

  "He's here because you had the bright idea of looking for a hidden door," Merry hissed back. "If they find it, I want to look good for the pictures." She waggled her fingers in greeting as the detective reached our table. "Is everyone else here?"

  "Wait, Merry," I began, ignoring Detective Leonides. "What pictures are you speaking of?"

  She tossed her head, rolling her eyes in a perfect imitation of me. "When the cops make the bust, of course! The news stations'll be all over it, and I want to look good." She smiled at Leonides. "We'll make a fine looking pair for the evening news." She was beginning to sound as crazy as Beatrice Lemon.

  Detective Leonides ignored her. "Mrs. Browning, I would suggest that you two finish your meal and leave as soon as possible. The least number of people here, the better."

  "Well, I like that!" said Merry, her attitude quickly morphing from conspirator to querulous. "If we hadn't suggested that you look again, Officer—" she knew how to deliver the low blow "—you wouldn't have thought of this on your own." She stood up quickly, nearly knocking her chair into the lady next to us, who was now openly staring. "Let's get out of here, Caro, before he decides to run us out on a rail."

  This time I left the apologizing to the detective.

  "Merry, you didn't need to be so rude." I buckled into the passenger seat of the Mini Cooper, careful to tighten the straps. "And you could have waited for them to box our food for us."

  The Mini Cooper's tires gave an ear-splitting squeal as Merry yanked the steering wheel and sent us flying out into traffic. The motorcyclist we nearly hit gave us a one-fingered salute which Merry returned with interest. I grabbed at the dashboard and sent up a silent prayer; Merry was truly a woman scorned, and she was letting the entire world know.

  "Actually," Merry said, this time slowing down enough to let a van merge ahead of us, "that idiot Leonides did us a favor." My heart was beginning to find its regular rhythm again and I released my death grip on the dash. "We're gonna beat him over to Bea's and talk to her before he does." She pressed down on the accelerator, hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel. "She's got some 'splaining to do, in my opinion."

  "We're going to do what? Merry, are you absolutely insane?" I began mentally composing my excuses to both Officer Scott and the detective; the blame would lie squarely on Merry's determined shoulders. "Bea is most likely not in any condition to answer questions, especially if she's busy with her inventory. Wouldn't it be better to call her and meet up, say, over coffee? Or an early dinner?" I added as my stomach rumbled.

  "Nope." Merry's voice was firm, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "I want the element of surprise, maybe catch her acting normal for once."

  I shook my head in defeat. I knew enough about my friend to recognize a stubborn streak when I saw one. As the small car joined the traffic on the freeway with Merry's foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal, I checked my seat belt again. This was going to be a bumpy ride any way I looked at it.

  Second Time's the Charm was closed, a handwritten sign posted directing that all donations be taken around to the back. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peeked into the dim store, noting again the creepy mannequin tea party. This time, however, there was only one at the table.

  I followed Merry through the back door, a feeling of unease tip-toeing up and down my spine. The single mannequin at the table had bothered me, although I could not articulate the reason, and in my opinion it was much too quiet inside a store that was undergoing inventory. Still, just like the characters in a horror film, Merry and I continued walking further inside the store.

  "Bea?" Merry's voice seemed extra loud and I jumped, grabbing at her arm and causing her to stumble over a box that sat just inside the back door. We both went down in a heap, the contents of the box spilling out across the floor.

  "Hurry up before she sees this mess," I hissed, groaning a bit as I untangled my feet from Merry's. As I began reaching for a silver bud vase that had rolled under a rack of clothes, I heard Merry draw in a sharp breath. Was she hurt? I looked back at where she still sat, her back to me and one arm held close to her body.

  Brilliant, I thought as I rushed over to see the damage, we can't catch a break! The thought struck me as funny, considering that Merry had possibly done just that, and I tried to hold in my hysterical response as I knelt down beside her.

  She sat holding a very little doll close to her, its small round face smiling above what was clearly a hand-made dress. I looked closer, noting the tiny china hands and the leather shoes, and I realized what I was looking at: a very old china doll, donated by accident or ignorance. I'd seen some just like this in a display before when I was younger, and I could still recall the delicate painted expressions on the faces of the dolls as they sat safely inside a glass case.

  "We've got to show this to Bea!" I exclaimed. "She'll need to get hold of whoever donated this box and make sure that's what they intended to do."

  I looked down at the vase I still clutched in my hand. Even with the tarnish, it was clearly sterling silver, and judging by the design etched around the rim, it was as old as the doll. I began scrambling across the floor, gathering the objects that lay there, exclaiming over each before returning it to the box.

  A pair of earrings, milky opals gleaming opaquely in gold settings, was a matched set with the delicate bracelet that was draped over a pair of silver candlesticks. None of the items were very large, but they were all definitely worth more than a trip to the second-hand store.

  Sometimes when the other shoe drops for me, it has to be in the form of a very heavy combat boot in order to get my attention. Today it was of the steel-toed and leather variety, and when my eyes met Merry's, I saw that she'd come to the same conclusion.

  Beatrice Lemon was a part of the stolen goods ring.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Is there something I can help you with?" Bea stood in the doorway to the store, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. She did not look amused, and the unease I felt earlier came back in spades.

  I stood up, dropping the earrings in my haste. Behind me, I could hear Merry placing the doll in the box, then retrieving the jewelry. I stayed where I was, eyes locked on Bea, ready to bolt if things got out of hand.

  The small pistol she pulled from her waistband changed my mind. I was frozen to the floor, unable to obey the screaming voices in my head that urged me
to run. Thankfully, Merry heard them just fine, and with a slam of the back door, she was gone.

  I fully expected Bea to give chase or, at the very least, shoot the nearest target. When neither happened, I let go the breath I'd been holding and mirrored her posture, one hand tucked in my pocket and the other, sans gun, hanging at my side. I fervently wished I'd had the presence of mind to grab one of the candlesticks, if only to feel armed. Hopefully Merry had already alerted the Seneca Meadows Police Department; if not, I'd need to either become a smooth negotiator or a master of self-defense very quickly.

  It turned out that neither one would be my next move: when Bea stepped over to the back door and flipped the lock closed, I bolted toward the front of the store, zig-zagging through the racks of clothes and household goods as I ran toward the front door.

  The door was locked, the deadbolt firmly in place, the key nowhere in sight. I contemplated breaking the glass, raising attention that way, but with Bea heading toward me, my mind drew a blank. Instead, I ran, keeping my head low, aiming for the office where I knew there'd be a phone.

  I had just made it into the small room when I heard the sound of Bea moving toward me, her steps measured and unhurried as if she had no reason to think I'd have a chance to call for help. She was correct, of course: there was no phone in sight. Frantically, and because I couldn't think of anything else, I slipped behind the open office door, holding my breath as I tried to slow my heart.

  I stood completely still, operating under the assumption that if I didn't move, she wouldn't be able to see me. In reality, it just gave Beatrice Lemon, the quintessential small town shopkeeper, a few seconds gain on me.

  "Well, fancy meeting you here," she said, her voice a sardonic copy of Merry's southern drawl. "Why don't you come on out here where we can see each other a little better?"

  She gave an odd giggle that sent a chill gaily tripping up and down my spine. I moved from behind the door reluctantly, mentally crossing my fingers that Merry had found a better hiding spot.

  "Bea, we can work something out," I began. A fierce backhand from the once meek woman was my answer, leaving a trail of fire across my face.

  "Just be quiet," Beatrice Lemon hissed. "You and your 'suthe'n' gal pal' make me so sick!" A fine spray of spittle hung in the air between us, and I drew back involuntarily, earning another stinging slap. "You just think you're too good for me, don't you, Ms. I'm-from-England-and-I'm-perfect!" Her voice had risen in volume and pitch, and a patch of red began moving up from her neck. "Well, I've got news for you: I got rid of Lucia Scarantelli when she laughed at me, and I'm going to do you the same favor." Again that awful giggle. "And I know something you don't know." With a nonchalant movement, she tossed the pistol on the floor. From where I was, I could clearly see that it was only a toy. Fabulous. Foiled by a stupid pretend gun.

  Keep her talking, my mind urged. Licking my lips that had become dry, I managed to croak out, "I'd love to hear about it, Bea."

  A coy arch of her eyebrow was her response. "Maybe if you're a good girl, I'll tell you." She swung her head around at a slight sound. "But first I'm going to drag your buddy in here." She began moving toward the office door, calling out in a childish, sing-song voice, "Come out, come out, wherever you are, Meredith Holmes!"

  She really was on another planet, I thought. Hadn't she seen Merry dash out the back door?

  I glanced wildly around her office, a mishmash of French-themed décor. Framed prints of the Eiffel Tower jostled for wall space with rhinestone encrusted fleur-de-lis and fancy pink crowns; it looked like a girl's bedroom gone amok. Just as my eyes lit on a small statuette of the Venus de Milo, Bea turned back.

  "Uh uh uh!" She said with a playfully wagging finger. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to see with your eyes and not your hands?"

  "I'm just admiring your decorating skill," I said as casually as I could. "Love the Paris scheme."

  Bea preened. "It's a gift, if I do say so myself." She walked over to the shelf where the statuette stood and picked it up. "This is one of my favorite pieces," she added, her eyes darkening with some emotion I couldn't suss. Was it an unhappy memory, perhaps? Did the bronze figurine represent something she'd rather forget? Bea shook her head as if to clear her thoughts and gave another high-pitched giggle. "It's real special to me, real special." She started to set it down, then thought better of it. "I think I'll keep this with me. It might just come in handy."

  "I don't think Merry is here," I volunteered. "Do you want to talk, maybe let me know why you killed Lucia? And Mick?" I kept my tone conversational, affecting an air of nonchalance; I examined my fingernails, keeping her in my peripheral vision.

  Beatrice Lemon's eyes narrowed, her face taking on a cat-like expression of satisfaction. Like the cat that got the cream, I thought with a shudder. Or the bird. I fully expected her to begin purring. To my immense relief, she walked back around the desk and sat down, the Venus de Milo in her lap. Having that expanse of cheap metal between us was a false security, I know, but it did drop my anxiety levels a tad. I only hoped that her throwing arm wasn't in shape.

  "To begin with," Bea said, "I don't feel at all responsible for Mick O'Reilly. It was his braggadocios manner that got him killed. He actually had the nerve to tell me that he was going to clean my clock if I didn't give him the Venus de Milo! He's lucky I decided to let him in on the scheme to begin with, anyway." She paused for moment, thoughtfully stroking the statuette. "His dad told me that he was spineless, and I should've listened. Mick was a nervous wreck every time he delivered another shipment here. And he hated that I let the senior citizens make deliveries as well." She sniffed disdainfully. "I tried explaining to him that there was more than enough money to go around and that the oldies would never tell on us; we were supplementing their government checks each month. Besides, it took them ages to get here from New York City—they all drove like snails."

  Poor Merry. This was one part of the story I didn't want her to know. Maybe Mick was developing a conscience toward the end. As for Bea, I was amazed that she could discuss the stolen goods as though they were part of a legitimate business operation with her part as that of a modern day Robin Hood, caring for the elderly and making sure they had adequate income. I automatically filed the information away in the Rolodex of my mind for later use in one of my books; Beatrice Lemon was fast becoming a font of inspiration of the illicit sort.

  "And Lucia was nothing but a fraud. She's the one who cut me into the deal to begin with and made sure I had a place to run the business. Did I mention that she and I both worked in the O'Reilly's bakery when we were in high school?" She gave another sniff. "She didn't even acknowledge me, though, and I came all the way to this god-forsaken excuse for a town just because she promised it'd be safer to open shop." She stopped again, perhaps waiting for a comment. When none was forthcoming, she continued her narrative, wriggling back in her desk chair as if this was nothing more than a tête-à-tête between friends. "If you can believe this, her name wasn't even Lucia Scarantelli at all—it was plain ol' Lucy Scarp. Bleh!" Bea wrinkled her nose as if smelling something malodorous. "So when I tried to give her this gorgeous piece of art"—she raised the Venus de Milo in the air as I flinched —"and show her that bygones would be bygones because of how she dissed me when she came to Seneca Meadows—" She gave a dry laugh, tossing her head. "Can you believe that she laughed at me? Called me a 'brownnoser' and a few other choice epithets I will not repeat. That was definitely the pot calling the kettle black. She only got the job in Seneca Meadows because she did a few 'favors' for some folks."

  With the statuette safely lowered back to her lap, I let out the breath I'd been holding. Bea Lemon, however, did not seem to be running out of breath at all. She went on gabbing, and I went on listening.

  "If there is one thing that I simply cannot stomach, it's a liar." She shook her head. "And having a liar as a leader in the town just rubbed me the wrong way, you know? She was trying to be someone she wasn't, and in my book,
that's a lie."

  Indeed I did. Like this entire scenario was doing to me. I managed a weak smile of encouragement at Bea: keep her talking, keep her talking was my mantra. I'd become aware of tiny movements in the hall outside Bea's office, and I was resolute that her attention not be diverted from what was essentially a confession. I also hoped with all my heart that someone else was hearing it as well.

  "When I told her that I was going to let it slip who she really was if she didn't start treating me nicer, I fully expected her to say she was sorry." Bea paused again, looking down at the bronze image she was holding. "I brought her this lovely figurine as a token of my esteem, proof that I believed she would do the right thing by me, her kin. But all she did was laugh." Another pause, this time accompanied by an expression of smugness, one that sent an involuntary shiver through me. "So she didn't want my gift? Well, I gave it to her anyways—right upside her head." And she smiled proudly, lofting the statuette above her head as if hoisting the winning prize at Wimbledon.

  Three things happened then in very quick succession: the office door flew fully open, discharging what seemed to be the entire Seneca Meadows police force. Next, Merry darted out from behind them and straight at me, her eyes wide with fear and concern.

  And finally my husband, my dear, sweet, always right on time husband, appeared behind her. I did what any self-respecting sleuth would do, of course. I burst into tears and flung myself into his arms.

  I remember reading that "all's well that ends well" during one of my Shakespeare manias, and I concur. Of course, I would have been just as happy not to have been in the presence of madness at all, but as another saying goes, it is what it is. Merry and I had been on the right track when we followed Beatrice Lemon into her shop that night, and luckily for us, the police had already figured it out as well. In fact, once they determined that we were not in eminent danger—and of course I heartily disagreed with this deduction—they let us become the vehicle for a full confession. It was all too Hollywood for me; perhaps they'd been watching too many cop shows.